


Competitive Intercourse (and Other Clandestine Activities)

by Just_Another_Day



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Another_Day/pseuds/Just_Another_Day
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sibling rivalry translates remarkably well to decidedly un-sibling-like behaviour, as it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Competitive Intercourse (and Other Clandestine Activities)

The sight of saliva-moistened lips curved in an almost perpetual pout. The vaguest smell of musk accented in the air. The sound of usually perfect music hitching discordantly as the bow stalls before falling uselessly away from the strings, leaving the tune unfinished, inviting some other activity to replace the lapsed playing.

Yet more compilations of temptation.

He doesn't even fight it anymore.

He falls again.

Sherlock endlessly accuses him of idleness, but a sideways glance through lidded eyes, the last straw, has Mycroft across the room in near record time. Hands find too-narrow hips, fingernails digging in uncomfortably beneath the tight trouser waistband and pulling those hips towards his own. Sherlock writhes into him in response to the blended pain of it, a reaction that only escalates when Mycroft's teeth sculpt possessive marks into the base of Sherlock's neck, barely low enough on his collar to later be concealed by those sinfully revealing shirts of his. 

As in every other avenue of their relationship, these clashes are always a contest of sorts, often almost more about winning than about sex. The way Sherlock shoves Mycroft away from him and almost bounces on the balls of his feet, battle-ready, suggests this time will be no different. The move is not a rejection (never that from either of them, not for years now, ever since Mycroft's last shred of sanity and self-preservation apparently vacated long ago). Rather, his movements are pure challenge, the kind Sherlock knows that Mycroft can't help but rise to.

A brief struggle for dominance earns Mycroft a bruise to the arm on the one hand, but the prize of Sherlock's legs wrapped around his hips on the other. Sherlock is distressingly light to carry (though he would counter that Mycroft is distressingly fat), and despite all outward appearances he has no real desire to prevent Mycroft from moving them to a more conducive location, so it's a matter of only seconds to manoeuvre him through the doorway to his room. The neatness of it in contrast to the veritable bombsite of 221B's main room has always seemed particularly appealing to Mycroft. Then again, perhaps it's merely the presence of the convenient bed with sheets smelling intoxicatingly of Sherlock that he finds so inviting.

Sherlock lets himself be dropped unceremoniously on the mattress, but Mycroft isn't fooled for a moment by his sudden compliance; tensed muscles, a slight arching of his torso to the left, and a flicker of his eyes all point towards preparation to go on the offensive. Still, though it doesn't surprise him in the least, Mycroft doesn't quite manage to prevent Sherlock from rolling them both over so he end up on top the moment Mycroft is within range. Nor does he particularly want to stop it. The way Sherlock grips Mycroft's hands above his head and traps his body between Sherlock's thighs is nothing if not wholly delightful, for all that Mycroft intends it to be temporary.

"Yield," Sherlock orders.

Mycroft doesn't deign to snort dismissively, but Sherlock's more than bright enough to read the intended response from the far more dignified twitch of his eyebrow:

Not in this lifetime.

Over the years, Mycroft has let Sherlock tempt him into an increasing variety of acts widely considered depraved between siblings, with increasingly less moral struggle on Mycroft's part as each encounter passes. This particular refusal has nothing to do with any shame he lately only feels in fleeting moments of retrospection, though. It's merely that he will not let Sherlock have his way on this particular issue. He gives in on nearly everything else eventually, but in this one thing he will not budge. 

He'll never yield so easily. Sherlock will penetrate him only if his younger brother genuinely begs for it, believably. Outside the kind of playacting Mycroft could identify without the slightest effort, Sherlock is far too proud to beg. Thus, as with so many of their childhood competitions, it ends in an impasse, and likely always will.

Sibling rivalry translates remarkably well to decidedly un-sibling-like behaviour, as it turns out.

That's all right, though, for Mycroft's more than willing to throw around his more considerable body weight a little, and Sherlock isn't the only one who will stoop to cheating a little where the situation warrants it. Sherlock loses concentration for only a moment at the sensation of Mycroft's hand cupped over his groin, massaging, but a moment is enough. He's pushed face-down into the sheets while Mycroft drags himself up and over him. The front of Mycroft's thigh prods pointedly at Sherlock's rear, and he can feel the heat of skin even through their clothes.

"I think this arrangement will suit us better, don't you?"

As Mycroft pulls him up onto all fours, Sherlock kicks half-heartedly at Mycroft's ankle, a last vestige of his desire to have Mycroft be the one underneath him for once, but he doesn't protest when Mycroft's hand returns to the front of his trousers, this time to work the zip down. 

If anyone other than Sherlock had ever actively fantasised about how Mycroft would act during sex, they might have expected him to be somewhat fastidious. They would have been surprised, then, by the way he yanks Sherlock's trousers and underwear down his legs in one almost vicious motion, barely slowing long enough for Sherlock to raise his knees so the material can slide past. He doesn't bother to remove either pants or socks from Sherlock's ankles, and only shoves Sherlock's shirt halfway up to reveal the slope of his back rather than bothering with the effort of buttons; after all, he's always enjoyed how the trappings of remaining half-clothed make Sherlock appear somehow more vulnerable than complete nakedness ever could. 

The lubricant is close at hand as always, a relic of Sherlock's old determination to avoid the too-long seconds it might take to retrieve it from a drawer, which could be enough time for Mycroft to rethink his rash consent. Such forethought is no longer necessary, of course; these days, Mycroft feels more than confident of his desire to make Sherlock mingle calls of Mycroft's name with cries to deities neither of them, with their scientific minds, have ever believed in. So there is no hesitation as Mycroft inserts newly-slicked fingers. He smiles at the resultant moan.

Sometimes he draws this stage out until Sherlock curses and whines and eventually grates out that Mycroft should "Just get on with it already, you abysmal lump, unless of course you're suffering from an untimely case of performance anxiety. If so, don't expect me to claim we can just cuddle instead." He always delights in proving just how fully hard he actually is at around that point, which is likely Sherlock's intent in goading him.

This time, though, he's rough and quick, bypassing one finger for two, and barely giving Sherlock long enough to adjust to the sensation of him scissoring them inside him before a third joins them as well. Sherlock appreciates the line between efficiency and eagerness, and he doesn't mind at all when Mycroft crosses it. He's practically made a secondary career of encouraging just that.

Once he backs Sherlock up against him and positions himself, the first thrust is perhaps rougher than a caring older brother should inflict on his younger sibling. But then, in this room he leaves the role of brother at the door. He knows men and women with disparate identities numbering in double digits. Allowing himself just three directly competing selves (patriot, brother and lover) actually seems rather thrifty by comparison. It's a shallow web of denial he's woven, but it works well enough to conquer what would surely otherwise be gnawing guilt. Sherlock, as always, further encourages the self-deception by moaning, "Again," indicating his complicity in acting for now completely as lover without any trace of any brotherly regard remaining.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says, which Mycroft interprets as meaning 'harder, you idiot, and do try to at least brush my prostate this time'. He's long since learned an entire dictionary full of meanings for how Sherlock pronounces just his name. 

Mycroft grabs the headboard with one hand for better leverage and willingly complies. Again. And again. He enjoys the feeling of Sherlock scrambling against the sheets for purchase. It's rare that he ever has his brother off-balance, even if it's only in the most literal sense. It amuses him that Sherlock's too busy grabbing at the bed to reach for himself. He'll get off on Mycroft's prick alone today. 

Sherlock doesn't seem to mind that idea, if it occurs to him (and of course it does, for his mind is rarely far behind Mycroft's, even when provided such ample distraction). The keening noises attest to how pleased he currently is even with his erection untended.

Mycroft sometimes wonders whether he could sustain himself just on those noises Sherlock is making. They're delicious, and strangely filling, though somehow more in the region of his chest than his stomach. Perhaps they would be enough in a steady diet, if the two of them never dragged themselves away from each other, though the country would fall apart in less than a day without them to manage it in their separate ways. Also, they'd probably kill each other out of sheer mutual annoyance with such prolonged contact.

It might be a fair price to pay, though, for more of this.

Mycroft's free hand finds Sherlock's curls and fists itself in them, yanking his head back. He's so tempted (always so tempted by Sherlock) to bite down higher up on Sherlock's neck without care for it being too warm outside to justify donning a scarf to cover it. He'd like to watch through the CCTV as Sherlock tried to explain (or not, more likely) to the Yard why he was suddenly sporting obvious love bites. Of course, they'd all assume they were from John. Everyone always did. It would be the perfect cover, if only the mere idea of John looking at his little brother with anything more than exasperated fondness didn't make Mycroft's inherent possessiveness rear itself.

Mine, he longs to growl out. Sherlock would probably laugh at him. He belongs to no one but himself, no matter how Mycroft might like to better govern him (and protect him, especially from himself). With Sherlock bared to him this way, though, skin and desires revealed to Mycroft in almost equal measure, he can almost delude himself that Sherlock is his, body and mind alike. His to control. At least temporarily.

It's a pipedream, or perhaps an obsession.

Or maybe it's as close to proper love as the two of them will ever manage.

Mycroft's grip turns more gentle in Sherlock's hair, a covert apology for thoughts unsaid, and then his hand falls to Sherlock's thigh. He traces the tender skin high on the inside, knuckles nearly brushing against his scrotum, but not quite. Just the way he knows Sherlock likes to be teased. 

"Mm–" Sherlock doesn't quite get the word out, but Mycroft hears his name being chanted nonetheless. Sherlock's close, apparently. It's the only thing other than drugs that ever even partly robs Sherlock of his words and slows his rampaging thoughts. It's no wonder he comes to Mycroft so often these days. It's no wonder Mycroft caved to his wishes, to keep him clean.

Or so he'll tell himself, rather than reflecting on just how lovely his brother feels wrapped so tight around him, ever tiny shift causing the sweetest of frictions, sending jolts through his most sensitive nerves.

The door downstairs opens and closes, clearly audible even over the noises they've been sharing, and neither of them needs to hear the distinctive squeak of weight shifting on the fifth stair up to know it's not Mrs Hudson who's just arrived home. John's movements are far more purposeful, his footfalls louder. Unmistakeable, probably even to less observant men than the two of them.

They freeze in that moment of racing indecision, letting the room fall nearly silent. During this space of seconds, Mycroft is fully cognizant of how idiotic they would have to be to continue on right under John's nose, as it were. John's not the brightest of men, perhaps, at least when placed on the same scale as the Holmes brothers, but only Sherlock would think to call him an idiot, and he knows Sherlock's methods well enough by now to notice at least the more obvious signs that something is strangely amiss.

Mycroft moves to slide out of Sherlock, carefully so as not to startle any betraying sounds from either of their lips, but Sherlock choses to instead to waylay the retreat, thrusting himself forcefully back onto Mycroft's cock. 

Mycroft stifles his own groan and his hand instinctively moves to Sherlock's mouth, knowing his brother, ever contrary, will rarely shut up voluntarily when he knows it would be preferable if he _doesn't_ talk or make noise. Sherlock resentfully accepts the makeshift gag of Mycroft's fingers, doubtlessly identifying the necessity of it even if he'll never admit aloud that Mycroft is ever actually right about anything. He does bite Mycroft's fingers in retaliation all the same, though. Mycroft thinks it's a sure sign of madness that he finds such childishness from his brother endearing, particularly when he can feel Sherlock's accompanying smirk forming against his skin.

As John calls out for his flatmate, Mycroft tenses, wondering whether John will go so far as to open the (unlocked) door to Sherlock's room to check on him. Closed doors wouldn't have the typical significance for the two of them, after all. They're practically joined at the hip (the irony isn't lost on Mycroft as his own hips snap closer to Sherlock's). 

Sherlock performs a good act of being unconcerned about the imminent possibility of discovery. Though perhaps that's the wrong word for it. Sherlock's expression more reflects satisfaction at getting away with this. He doesn't even have the decency to look guilty about getting off on the danger of it. Mycroft suspects Sherlock doesn't acknowledge that such a thing as shame even exists. He certainly never acknowledged Mycroft's, in those early days before he grew too jaded.

It shouldn't be surprising that Sherlock's exhibitionist streak stretches to sex, but even Mycroft's observational powers aren't quite up to the endless task of predicting every little fetish that might lurk in the recesses of Sherlock's mind. Still, it's not an unwelcome surprise. Mycroft can imagine taking him against the wall of the Stranger's Room at the Diogenes Club, a proper ball gag between his teeth to better ensure speechlessness, but with the telling slap of skin on skin still threatening to disrupt the silence that otherwise reigns over the whole building.

He has to fight not to come then and there at that mental visual. He holds back though, determined to outlast Sherlock. Everyone, Sherlock included, always seems to underestimate the strength of Mycroft's willpower.

The rap of John's fist on Sherlock's door, a sign that he's close enough to possibly hear their accelerated breathing, seems to be enough to set Sherlock off. Mycroft just barely stops himself from crying out in mixed pleasure and pain as Sherlock clenches his teeth on Mycroft's hand and his rectum on Mycroft's cock simultaneously.

"Fine," John calls out through the door as Sherlock fails to respond, too busy panting as he comes down. Mycroft can almost picture his momentarily unfocused eyes and flushed cheeks, and he suddenly regrets not having Sherlock face him. "Sulk in there by yourself then," John says. "Sherlock Holmes, in a strop yet again. Must be a day ending in 'y'."

Mycroft sighs in relief as John's footsteps fall away, while Sherlock looks as if he's fit to burst out laughing loudly at any minute. 

John's still out there somewhere, near enough to be a risk.

Mycroft pulls himself away, a gasp signalling Sherlock's sensitivity as he slides out. A perfunctory cleaning with the wet wipes Mycroft insists remains alongside the lube (perhaps he's a little finicky about sex after all), and Mycroft's rolling his brother onto his back and looming over him, more or less straddling his finely muscled chest. The sight of Mycroft's reddened cock, still hard and wanting, makes Sherlock grin even more, and Mycroft fears it could erupt into unseemly giggles any second. 

His cock makes a much better gag than his hand, though, and Sherlock's never treated blow jobs as a laughing matter. He's very dedicated about them, in fact. Mycroft will never let it be said that Sherlock's tendency towards mouthiness isn't good for something. Several somethings, at that.

At this angle, Mycroft can't help but trigger Sherlock's gag reflex a little, but Sherlock won't settle for shallow thrusts. He clenches his hands on Mycroft's arse to draw him in further, and Mycroft can't remain silent a second longer, no matter how much he tries. Luckily his groan of completion as he spills into Sherlock's mouth is pitched so low that it could be missed through the thick wood of the door. Mycroft keeps himself under better control as Sherlock licks him clean and allows Mycroft to soften gently in his mouth, the most tender action that will probably ever pass between them. 

As Mycroft pulls away, there's the merest brush of lips against his right hip. It might be an accident. It's probably not a kiss. Much like penetrating Mycroft, Sherlock never does that, though this time from his own choice. Biting and sucking, yes, but never a casual affectionate press of lips like the kind other lovers may exchange thoughtlessly. They are many things together, but they are not sentimental.

At least, Mycroft tries not to be.

Sherlock pushes Mycroft off him so he can sprawl unimpeded over two-thirds of the bed, though he seems content for Mycroft to claim the remaining surface for now rather than kicking him out. He rolls over, and for a moment Mycroft thinks he's intending to cuddle. (Mycroft wishes the idea of that seemed repugnant to him, the way he'd fervently wished the first few times Sherlock lured him into his bed that sex with his brother was as off-putting for him as it should be.) 

Instead, he merely leans so his lips almost make contact with Mycroft's ear, his breath a hot, moist presence against Mycroft's skin.

"You can't strategically retreat until John leaves," Sherlock rumbles lowly in his ear, pure sex made sound. 

No, Mycroft concedes, he's clearly bound to stay for the duration, until John gets bored enough to go for a walk or discovers that he needs to go shopping yet again since Sherlock's used all their milk on another questionable experiment. They'd never be able to explain away any suspicion that John may harbour if he sees them emerge together, having been holed up and near silent in Sherlock's darkened bedroom (which clearly smells of sex, which John Watson of all people surely couldn't miss) when usually they're loudly at each other's throats in a far less amenable manner.

"I can think of several ways we could pass the time," Sherlock suggests.

"Several?" Mycroft whispers, looking doubtful. He's certainly not the spry twenty-something year old he once was, after all.

Sherlock looks smug. "Hmm. At least six that are applicable for the immediate future. Though some options may take a little longer to arise, let's say, than others." He looks pointedly down along the length of Mycroft's body.

Mycroft glares at the implied slight. There's rarely been a challenge Sherlock has issued to him that he hasn't met, and happily. It's how they ultimately ended up in this position, more or less. Perhaps Mycroft should be a little embarrassed that Sherlock doesn't even feel the need to be subtle about it anymore, if he ever was, but he can't really gather the energy to be annoyed at himself. Besides, he can hardly argue with such a satisfactory outcome, no matter by what path it came about.

Sherlock's hand drifts down his own chest, tangling momentarily in the path of hair trailing along his abdomen, before lightly tracing his foreskin. Limp or not, Mycroft is as rapt as always by the sight of Sherlock's long, thin fingers playing over his similarly proportioned cock. It won't take him long to coax himself back to hardness. He's always been insatiable, at least where Mycroft is concerned, though Mycroft has never once witnessed any sign of Sherlock exhibiting any sexual intent or even attraction towards another person. And he should know; he watches his brother more than Sherlock himself probably even suspects.

The knowledge that he's the only one is heady. Surely he can hardly be blamed for thoroughly enjoying such power.

Sherlock gives him that look that clearly spells out an invitation, reminiscent of the look from earlier that had finally made Mycroft snap the way Sherlock wanted him to. Mycroft has no desire this time to put up even a temporary front of indifference. He reaches for Sherlock, their fingers sliding alongside each other just perfectly.

He falls again, and again, without caring if the ground is rushing up to meet him.


End file.
